


For Your Eyes Only

by dametokillfor



Series: The Declassified Romance of Agents Hart and Trevelyan [7]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Harry Hart Lives, James!Lancelot Lives, M/M, PTSD, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dametokillfor/pseuds/dametokillfor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's standing in front of Harry. (Or is he?) He's talking to Harry. (Or is he?) He's touching Harry. (Or is he?). God, Harry hopes this is real. </p><p>Or Harry came back from the dead. Is it really so impossible to think James did as well?</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Your Eyes Only

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, it's time I stop pretending my Harry/James fic aren't a series. So I present to you, the fourth part of The Declassified Romance of Agents Hart and Trevelyan. 
> 
> Title from the Bond theme/film of the same name.

"You are much sexier than the last Arthur." 

"Shut up, James." 

The words are out of his mouth before Harry realises he's said them, before his broken mind remembers that James is dead. He keeps his one good eye down on the tablet, lets the high tech eyepatch pick through the coded mission report. 

It's not the first time he's heard James' voice since he was killed, but it's the first time it's sounded so loud, so clear. Once upon a time he'd have let himself look up, let himself hope that his fiancé wasn't sliced in half. People don't survive being sliced in half, James is dead, James is gone, Harry's mind is playing tricks on him again. 

"Oh please," James continues, "You're not even trying to scold me anymore."

"Because you're dead." Harry slams his hand into the desk, "You're dead and this is my bloody brain messing with me again and I can not do this again." 

"Harry," ~~James'~~ The voice softens. 

"No." 

"Harry, it's really me. Look up." 

Harry keeps his eye fixed on the tablet, screws them shut when he feels tears forming. The voice sounds so real, so like James, Harry doesn't want to believe. He can't believe. 

"Valentine faked the autopsy photo to bring Kingsman out of the woodwork. It was black and white, because that double had brown eyes." The voice says, softly, "Gazelle disarmed me, took me down, but never sliced me in two. My heart, my left lung, they were severely damaged but I pulled through. Doctors claimed it was sheer force of will that kept me alive. A miracle, they said."

Harry shakes his head. 

"Because I wasn't about to die when you'd just asked me to marry you, Harry." The voice says.

"Then why didn't you come back sooner?" Harry grits out, "You've been gone three years."

"I was in hospital nearly a year. Just as I got out, I heard about Kentucky. So far as I knew, you were dead. They'd have replaced me, and you were dead. I had no reason to come back." James explains. No, the voice. Not James. Not yet. "So I've been working privately, freelance, a gun for hire."

"A hitman."

"Lets not pretend it wasn't what I was best at." He sounds sad, "A few months ago, I was contacted by someone who wanted me to take out the head of an underground intelligence agency. An older English gentleman, whip smart, and a bit of a recluse. I was told not to underestimate him, he once killed 40 people in just over three minutes with barely a scratch on him. In Kentucky."

"You were my target, Harry." James whispers.

"So you're here to kill me?" Harry barks out a bitter laugh.

"Of course, I just thought I'd monologue for a while first." He sounds amused, "I tracked down the man who'd hired me, gave him the treatment he'd asked me to give you. Then I waited two months, enough time that nobody would try and track my return and, here I am." 

Harry shakes his head, "This isn't real."

"I promise, Harry, I'm really here. It's really me." James' voice says, and Harry is so close to breaking. The voice is so real, he can hear footsteps, can hear breathing, he can almost feel another presence in the room. 

"I swear I will be here when you look." James is pleading, and Harry wants so much to believe his brain can't be this cruel, "Have I ever broken a promise I've made you? Look at me. _Please_." 

And the please does him in. He needs to look, needs to see, needs to know if this is real, or if his mind really is determined to destroy him. 

Harry lifts his head, and slowly opens his eye. He blinks away the fug, and looks across the table. 

And he's there. 

James is actually there. 

He's wearing a dark shirt, dark jeans and a black leather jacket. (Harry's amazed he even got into the shop looking like that, and really, is this what he wants to be thinking about right now?)

He's slimmer, there's a few more grey hairs, and his hair is a little longer, but it's him. It's definitely him. There's a small nervous smile playing about his lips, and his eyes are full of hope.

"Hello Harry." 

"You bastard." Harry says, getting up to his feet, "You utter _bastard_."

"I prefer James." 

And the pair of them are laughing like idiots, it's so ridiculous. 

And to hell with propriety and decorum, Harry thinks as he dives at James, and wraps his arms around him. There isn't etiquette for how one should react when one's presumed dead fiancé comes back to life after three years. James pulls Harry close to him, buries his head in his neck. 

And they're both telling each other how much they've missed each other, how hard it's been, how they're never letting each other go again. 

It could be minutes, hours, days, forever when they pull back, and even then it's just barely, just enough to look at each other. James lifts a hand to trace the angry scar over the left side of Harry's face. There's a black patch covering the missing eye, and James smiles sadly.

"I don't like to think of myself as a vain man, but I had hoped you wouldn't have to see how I look right now." 

"Oh, I don't know." James says with a smirk, "Always found pirates very sexy."

"There's very little more erotic than scurvy." Harry agrees, with a laugh. He allows himself the luxury of stroking James' face, his arms, his chest, "God, you're really here."

He wants to kiss him, wants to take him to bed, wants to see how much has changed, wants to see how well they know each others bodies after so long. But he also needs to be realistic about this, they need to check he is who he says he is, there's DNA tests and sodium pentathol and polygraphs but Harry knows this is James, this is his James. 

James is staring at his mouth, as if he's thinking the same thing. 

"Oh to hell with it."

Harry surges forwards, presses a hard, desperate kiss to James' mouth. He backs James against the heavy table, presses their bodies together, as if moving even an inch away will mean he disappears. 

James arms wrap around Harry's shoulders, his hands move up into his slick hair. God he's missed this, missed James touching him and kissing him and holding him like this. 

Harry feels human again for the first time since he saw that red K. 

James hops onto the table, and wraps his legs around Harry's waist, pulls him flush against him. Harry pushes at the leather jacket, pushes it off James' shoulders. 

James laughs against Harry's mouth, "Are we seriously going to fuck on the dining table?"

"You've never thought about it?" Harry asks, unbuttoning James' shirt, pull it out of his jeans, bloody jeans. 

"That's not what I said." 

Harry leaves the shirt on mostly, the cuffs are far too much effort right now. His hands slide across James' chest, fingers slipping over old scars, new scars, new marks to learn. He looks down at the marks, the stab wound from their first mission together, the bullet wound that nearly killed James just before his birthday. There are large angry scars across his stomach, must have been where Gazelle must have... 

Enough. Harry's hands are back into James' hair, pulling him back into a kiss. No scars, no pain, just Harry and James. 

James flips the buttons on Harry's suit jacket, pushes it off him, before going straight for the tie. 

"I should probably lock the door." Harry says. He doesn't want to get out of James' grip, doesn't want to move, but it's very important that he at least pretends he does. Part of him wants someone to walk in, someone to confirm this is real, that James really is tearing at his shirt, being just as hasty as ever. It's his James, but is his James real?

"No. You shouldn't. You should keep kissing me, you should keep undressing me, you should miraculously have some lube in your suit jacket." James tells him, pulling off Harry's shirt. 

"Afraid not, darling."

James laughs softly, "Darling. I've missed that. Only ever sounded right coming from you."

"Darling. Darling. Darling." Harry kisses the pet name into his neck. He kisses the name down his throat, "Darling. My darling James."

Harry pushes James down on the table, crawls up over him. His knees aren't overly fond of the hard wooden surface, but he doesn't care, because James. It's James and sore knees are worth it, to get at him again. (And it's not exactly the first time they've suffered for this man).

James' hands are at Harry's belt, flicking it open with a practised ease, before going to work at his fly. Harry wants him to slow down, tell him they have all the time in the world now they're back together, but then part of him just wants to get him naked beneath him as fast as possible. 

Harry starts kissing down James' chest, kissing every new scar, every old scar, his fingers sliding over James ribs. James is chuckling softly, has always been ticklish, has always hated Harry using that against him. 

His hands pull at James' belt, pulls open the disgusting jeans and yanks them, and his boxers, hard over his hips. 

"Forgot how much you hated jeans." 

"No, you didn't." Harry mumbles into his stomach, looks up at James, "If you need to distress your clothes in order to make them wearable..."

"Harry. Not the time." James tells him, laughing a little. 

"You wore them, consider this payback." Harry says, nipping at his stomach. He trails slow kisses across James stomach, across his thighs, avoids his cock. 

"Harry, fuck..." James moans, lifting his hips.

Harry pushes his hips down to the table, and kisses his way back up James' body again. He feels James' body hitch under him, and it's just perfect and God, he'd missed it so much. James is pulling his trousers down, pulling his boxers down, and his hands are at Harry's arse. 

It's not going to be anything special, not in the bloody dining room, where anyone could walk in, not with them reunited after three years. 

It's Harry's hands grabbing their cocks and jacking them off, it's quick, it's messy, it's like their first nights together all over again. The nights when they'd just lay together and make out like teenagers, rubbing off on each other. 

It's James whispering a thousand and one promises into Harry's mouth, telling him that he's sorry for leaving, he loves him more than anything in the world, telling him he'll never wear jeans again. 

It's laughing and crying and it's years of pent up loneliness and passion and fear and grief and it's somehow perfect. 

There's still a nasty little voice in the back of Harry's mind telling him that this still isn't real, that it's just an intense dream, it's the PTSD and James is still dead, and he's just a lonely old man getting himself off. He screws his good eye shut, terrified the fantasy will float away. 

Then there's James' voice telling him that he's never letting Harry go again, and it's almost too much. James feels so real, he smells like James smells, tastes like James. This can't be a dream, Harry won't survive waking up if James isn't with him. 

Somehow despite his worry, despite his fear, Harry feels his release creeping up on him. The pleasure is white hot, overwhelming and intense, but the fear Harry feels is just as real, just as overwhelming. 

James' hand is at his back, holding him close, telling him how much he loves him. Harry finds himself begging James to be real as he feels the pair of them spilling over his hand. 

"Please, James, please..." He begs, "Don't you fucking leave me."

"Never." James tells him. 

And he sounds so real, and Harry wishes he was as sure as he was minutes before. Harry _needs_ him to be real and he's finding himself memorising where every weapon he has is, just in case, and just which will be most effective and...

"OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD." 

And Merlin's accent cuts through Harry's shattered mind like a knife. He opens his eye, and James isn't there.

Instead he's on the floor, pulling up his jeans and grabbing his shirt, throwing Harry's jacket at him. 

"Three years, you've been dead three years, and while it was very sad and I mourned, I did. I thought, well at least I'm not going to walk in on you two shagging against any flat surface you can find anymore." Merlin continues, and Harry is still a little dazed, because James is still there and he'd all but convinced himself that this was a dream again.

"And then James' chip pings the security and I hope, hope upon hope that it means what I think it does! But I walk in here and find you two rutting like animals. AGAIN."

"Oh come on, Merlin," James says, "You'd have been disappointed to see me for the first time again with my clothes on."

Harry is dressing distractedly, watching as the two men bicker. It's real, James is real, James is here. They've got their second chance. 

Of course, that all depends on Merlin not throttling James first. Harry takes a second, pulls himself together and puts on his most authoritative Arthur voice.

"Gentlemen, if you don't mind." 

Merlin fixes him with a glare, James with an approving smirk.

"Mr Trevelyan needs to be thoroughly debriefed." 

"Please stop." Merlin begs, holding his face in his hands.

"After which he will be returned to HQ, where his future with the agency will be discussed. Until then, we shall take our leave and expect no interruptions for at least 72 hours."

And Harry is pleased to hear the playfulness in his own voice, something he'd never expected to hear again. 

Merlin nods, "Yes, sir."

He nods to Harry, "Arthur."

He turns to James, with a smirk, "Guinevere."

He leaves the room, leaves Harry and James alone. James walks over to Harry, rests a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" He asks, "You seemed a little confused when you saw I was still here. I should probably have called, sent a message, done anything that didn't involve just turning up and ravishing you."

"You always did have a flare for the dramatic." Harry rests his hand on James', "I'll be okay."

And for the first time in three years, Harry actually believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Ten points to anyone who spots the reference to my first Davenport slash ship. ;)
> 
> I do have tentative ideas for another story in this series, but I'd also like to know what you guys want to see. Are there any timestamps in this verse you'd like? Do you want to see their first meeting? Would you like to see Harry admit his feelings for James? How about their first date? Harry telling Eggsy about James? It's up to you guys. Drop it in a comment here, or my askbox on [Tumblr](http://damnstevens.tumblr.com) and we'll see what happens. I love these nerds, and I'm not ready to give them up just yet!


End file.
